I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.

I shouldn't think even millionaires could eat anything nicer than new bread and real butter and honey for tea.

I only want to write. And there's no college for that except life.

I was wandering around as usual, in my unpleasantly populated sub-conscious.

Why is summer mist romantic and autumn mist just sad?

a loss of sensibility follows a loss of innocence, at once a penalty and a compensation.

What is it about the English countryside — why is the beauty so much more than visual? Why does it touch one so?